The Mourners Poem by Milda Morse

The day was as expected.
Misty, windy, damp and cold.
Cold to your bone marrow.
You shiver
but find no warmth.
The small group
of youthful mourners,
Cluster for the task at hand.
The father made the little wooden box.
the mother the little satin pad.
The box holds the fetus of
The child they will never have.
The group walks silently to the woods
To the spot where the dad stood
Digging the hole
Now waiting for the tiny soul.
The service is short
The couple are in pain
Silently crying in vain.
For dreams lost
In the baby's remains.